Under His Wing: Convergence
by earthtorebecca
Summary: In a world where secrecy stands as the foundation of mankind, it would take a revolt to unveil the truth and grant justice. Giselle Beaumont, heir to the Beaumont name, comes face-to-face with the ugly face of truth, and must decide: will she stay silent, or let her voice be heard?
1. Rainy Days, Rainy Moods

Have you ever wondered why it rains? You know, beyond all that science mumbo-jumbo about evaporation and condensation. Why does the bright blue hue of a sunny day suddenly disappear and leave elated children playing hopscotch to slump in sadness at the looming presence of cumulonimbus clouds overhead? Why do these ominous storms cast not only the city, but our bodies in darkness as joints begin to ache and minds grow weary? Isn't it strange- even a little? You see it all the time; gloomy clouds drag their bodies into view and suddenly it's, 'Man, I wish I could stay home' or sometimes even, 'This weather is so depressing'. Maybe it's superstition, but I refuse to believe it's just that science crap.

Something is coming.

Something is happening.

 _Something._

I can't ignore the dull ache throbbing in the space between my temples and ears, the strange wave of restlessness crashing against the walls of my stomach as lightning illuminates bizarre shadows in my room and thunder booms a little too loud for my comfort. I've tried explaining these feelings of apprehension to our housekeeper, Linette, but she recoils at any mention of superstition, or really at any word with 'super' at the forefront. I blame our house; it's far too big to _not_ follow the creepy trend.

With no one to properly express myself to, I usually resort to our trusty pup, Nola. Nola is a great listener, at least I like to tell myself that when she sits patiently as I pour my heart out to her. She's been a great furry companion for the last 10 years. Unfortunately, she's a big dog, and you know what they say about their age at those sizes. I think she feels self-conscious of the little grey hairs growing on her muzzle and extra flab hanging from her tummy, though, so I try to reassure her of her timeless beauty as much as I can nowadays- she needs the encouragement. A dazzling doll such as herself should always believe in her worth.

Gazing up at the vaulted ceiling lined by a string of twinkling star-shaped lights, a deep frown tugs at my lips. The clouds were getting upset. What are they thinking right now? Rain drops fall like angry confusion against the window; it's almost resembles static, mimicking the sound of a TV on the wrong video input. Turning to face the window beside my bed, I peel back the curtain and watch in amazement as pools of rain splatter against the glass and create flowing streams. The thousands of little droplets find familiarity with each other and form brotherly bonds to give the illusion of a waterfall cascading down the glass. Drowning in the comfort of the momentarily soothing storm, I barely register the squeaky voice of Linette coaxing me to get out of bed.

"I know it's a stormy day, but piano lessons aren't held outside- so up, up, up!" she called out from the doorframe, her small voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain.

Sighing inwardly, I nodded to show my understanding and lift my torso to sit up, looking a lot like I rose from the dead. I hear Linette scoff just barely loud enough for me to hear- because she indeed meant to- and shuffle back out the door.

Piano lessons with Ms. Domingo were nice; she has a sweet smile, the kind that shows her age a little as shallow imprints of crow's feet crinkle at the corners of her eyes. She also has patience with me and doesn't scold me harshly like my last instructor, who _was_ indubitably fired, but not for scolding me, of course. Mother just didn't like the way she dressed; she thought it was too _butch_ and kept making up strange assumptions and even stranger scenarios based on said assumptions. I certainly could not, for the life of me, correlate one with the other. Either way, she was gone after only a month.

Slipping out of my cotton night gown, I change into what Mother usually likes to see me in: a button up blouse with a knee-length pleated skirt. I look into the mirror and frown. I understand that she wishes for a modest and conservative look, but I am 18 years old. It's tiring dressing myself according to someone else's demands; but, for as long as I live under her roof and with Beaumont tied to my name, I have no choice in the matter. I give the top of my foot one last tap against the floor in adjustment to my loafers before heading out for piano lessons.

Our estate is large- too large, in fact. Especially for three people. Although I am in no position to write a complaint, I've always felt strange here. The halls are too long, the staircases are too winding, and the décor is too expensive; I get anxiety every time I walk past something breakable. Not to mention, strangely the air always smells excessively of floral perfume- my Mother's doing, no doubt. We already have a fruitful garden in the backyard, we certainly don't need the inside to smell the same.

I slide my hand down the marble banister as I traipse down the stairs. Maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe I'm just an ungrateful brat. But, it would be nice if my home felt like… _home_ , for once. When I think of a home, I think of warm, home-cooked meals by my mom and not by chefs who I think worry more about expensive ingredients and presentation than comfort and taste. Or maybe comfort in knowing my parents are just down the hall if I feel upset instead of two floors down in either a research lab until morning or up badmouthing with irritatingly cynical friends about so-and-so's failure of a salon. I want to be able to walk in through the front door and feel the accumulated stress and worry in my conscious to dissipate as I'm lovingly embraced by the unconditional and unadulterated security of my home.

Or maybe I've just been reading too many fictional novels lately.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Are you ready for this week's lesson?" chirped the ever-so-animated Ms. Domingo as I take a seat next to her at the studio piano. I offer a shy smile.

"Bonjour, Madame Domingo."

"Have you finished your piano lessons, Giselle?"

My thick head of ginger locks tilts towards the direction of the voice. Sighing inwardly, I close an enthralling book on the first Titan battle and dog-ear the page I reach; it was getting to the good bits too. As the sound of clicking heels echoing down the hall grow louder, each click pounds like a hammer against my temple.

' _What is it now?'_

"Just what are you doing in your father's library? Did you attend your lesson, Giselle?" comes a voice that is sharp like diamonds and cold as ice:

My mother, Camille Beaumont.

"We finished early, Ms. Domingo said there was no point in beginning next week's lesson since I got the lesson down quickly," I explain as politely as possible, though the barrier wedged between my patience and annoyance feels as though it's getting smashed by a giant log handled by big, burly men.

Eagle eyes cut into rabbit eyes. "Ridiculous. We're paying her for the full three hours, you should never be let out early unless we've arranged it beforehand. She will be contacted about this immediately."

' _She'll probably fire her. Too bad, I liked this one,'_ mused the young woman sadly.

Camille strides towards the door, her walk full of refined dignity, grace, and power. Me on the other hand, incapable of handling such intense qualities in my bones, shift my eyes away at the sight of such a commanding presence. "Giselle?"

I peer up through my dark lashes. "You are aware of what next Monday holds, correct?"

Next Monday… What is next Monday? Piano lessons are on Tuesdays while violin lessons are on Thursdays. Ah, it must be about my academic studies on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. A test maybe? Or a quiz? I reach toward my school pack to retrieve my planner. A disapproving click on a tongue stops me short.

"Forgetful girl," she scorns, "Do not tell me you truly forgot about the TEA representatives' visit?"

'TEA…?'

Frosty blues narrow daggers at warm golds.

'What is she talking about…' I mull over hastily, shifting uncomfortably under her penetrating stare. I freeze.

"Wait, Mother, you weren't being serious about that, were you?"

"Of course I am serious, why would I joke about something like that?" she raises a calculating brow, "You aren't ungrateful for your 18th birthday gift; are you, Giselle?"

My heart drops to my stomach at her tone. It's always the disappointed tone with these situations. "N-no, of course not! It's just… I feel strangely about it, is all."

"It feels as though everyone in Mitras has one already. We couldn't dare fall behind on the trend, could we? Especially since we have the easiest access to them of all." She crosses to a tall bay window wedged between two bookshelves, meticulous eyes examining the tall vases of flowers positioned dutifully on either side like a pair of knights. "I'm sure you'll like it, Giselle; stop complaining."

Trends, image, status: that's all Mother ever cares about. I suppose it's done her well as she's practically feared as a top-tier predator in what I like to call, 'The Game'. The Game isn't quite what you'd think; it's not a public event that is outwardly discussed. It's unspoken, though indubitably present. Everyone is painfully aware of The Game, if you're a contender, and like a battle of natural selection through the food-chain, the objective is simply to survive- with their social status, that is. I never liked the idea of it, thus I try to isolate myself from anything that may involve it. However, Mother is an insatiable predator on the prowl for challengers. One of her favorite methods of attack is throwing me out in the clearing as bait as she lurks in the shadows, waiting to pounce on any challengers. Sounds a bit exaggerated, but that's what it certainly feels like when she brags about how many languages I'm studying for 15 minutes at a salon.

"Besides, it would be nice to have one around the house. We could always use an extra set of hands," she muses with a satisfied nod at the flowers, eyes traveling to the view of our garden from the window.

' _What?'_

"Excuse me?"

Dammit, I said that out loud. "I'm sorry, Mother, but weren't they created for… military purposes? It feels strange to have one doing house chores," I blurt with an overflow of respect, a means to repent for my insolence against her authority. She glares nonetheless.

"Yes, they were. You forget we haven't seen war for centuries, Giselle. When the time comes, they will answer the call. For now, they will be made useful while they've been created to test their abilities. They're incredible machines."

War machines mowing the lawn, huh? Inwardly, I sneer disdainfully at the thought. These weapons, otherwise known as Protectors, aren't news to me. In fact, I like to think I'm quite familiar on their subject, as our family takes the title as one of two leading researchers responsible for their development.

Protectors have been around for decades, though they haven't been formally introduced to the public until as of late. My great-grandfather, Aloïs Beaumont, along with a fellow scientist, Lodovica Grünewald, began the development of these war machines about a century ago and since then, it's been passed down to my grandfather, Olivier Beaumont, and since a decade ago, my father, Vincent Beaumont. I used to be thoroughly interested in my father's work, and I remember spending many days in his lab as he enthusiastically taught me subjects I couldn't dare process even today as the mere thought hurts my brain too much. I was rarely allowed to watch him work on the machines themselves, but I've seen my fair share of completed prototypes. The first time I saw one, my fascination grew sour. It was brief and for visual purposes alone, but something about how _human_ they looked made my stomach turn. The thought of 'owning' one for 'trends' sake triggered a sensation of bile to crawl up my throat.

Mother seemed to notice the sickly pale of my face and clicked her tongue disdainfully. "You _will_ meet the TEA representatives and you _will_ accept your gift with open arms. _Do I make myself clear, Giselle?_ "

All I can do is nod mechanically under her burning gaze.

"Very good. Now, I must make arrangements for our escort to tomorrow's salon. I do hope you didn't forget that at least," she calls with a hint of ridicule sharpening her tone as she heads back towards the door.

Ah, right. The salon at the Dupont estate. "I haven't forgotten, Mother," I murmur with a downcast of my eyes. Her stare is intimidating.

"Good girl. I'll have your dress ready in the morning. And darling?" Terrifying authority meets terrified timid. "Do leave this library every now and then. Try something less depressing than isolating yourself in this depressing weather."

Depressing weather, huh?

There's something comforting about a fire at night. I watch as wild flames lick and seethe at the burning log below, as if to assert dominance. The black metal gate keeping guard of the stone prison keeps a watchful eye as I observe from the rug only a few feet away. The orange and yellow illuminations cast a golden glow on my face. The passionate heat warms my face nicely.

Beside me lays Nola, fast asleep with the occasional dream-induced kick or scrunch of her lips. I smile at the sight and allow my hand to run freely through her black fur. Twirling a few curled ends on her chest, a deep sigh expels from my lungs.

The rain hasn't let up today, let alone for a few moments to catch its breath. It's not necessarily angry like before, but more of an empty sadness where tears pour down your face with no indication. I hate that kind of sadness, it makes me feel like crying is all I'm capable of. A low rumble denotes a potential change in mood.

"The forecast said there should be no rain tomorrow, let's hope that's true," murmured a soft voice from behind. I jump a bit in surprise.

"Hi, Linette. What time is it?" I hadn't looked at the time in what felt like hours, too emerged in the sedative atmosphere I've blanketed myself in.

"About 9 o'clock, have you been in here since you finished piano lessons?" she inquires with a touch of incredulity coloring her squeaky pitch. I smile sheepishly with a nod, earning a roll of the eyes from her.

I hear her footsteps approach before they stop short a few feet away, the sound of sinking cushions signifying her settlement on one of the plush chairs. Minutes pass in comfortable silence, the sound of pattering rain drops taking place of conversation. Linette's presence is heartening. It isn't usual that I spend time with others, unless it's appointed by my Mother. As a child, I attempted to play with the other kids, but I always felt out-of-place. It was strange, I grew up in the same setting as them, but it never clicked for me. They ended up annoying me with their haughty demeanors and selfish indulgence. I found myself frequently slipping away in hopes of finding a library like my father's, and more often than not, I was successful. Thus, I spent many salons leafing through books and emerging myself in a world that wasn't my own. Is it pathetic? To erase my existence in this world and find solace in fictional ones printed in leather-bound books, if only for a few hours? I suppose. Though I learned to find comfort in these worlds when mine felt bleak. Call it a cope mechanism, if you will, but it's a damn good one at that.

"You look like you're fighting a losing internal battle. Are you okay, Giselle?"

I snort lightly. "Sheesh, Linette, no faith in me? I had just turned the tides too." I feign sadness, eliciting an amused chuckle on her part.

"Oh hush, dear. I've noticed that your mood tends to turn sour on rainy days, so tell me, what are you thinking?" she urges, issuing a slightly uncharacteristic, though deeply welcomed display of kindness. I scoot my butt until my back hits her knees and lay my head back onto her knees. She picks up on the action quickly as she begins running her nimble fingers through my wavy tresses.

My eyes wander back to the fire, its smoldering heat charming me like a spell. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, I really don't. I appreciate everything that's been given to me in my life, because I know there are many who have much less," I pause, gaze faltering for only a second. "I just want to belong."

There it is, that stinging pain in the back of my eyes. I roll my eyes in annoyance. _'Stop crying.'_

Linette stay silent, though her fingers do not stop caressing my locks. She means for me to go on.

"I guess I'm just reaching that age where I can reflect on what kind of life I have. And honestly… it's so lonely, Linette. It's so damn lonely."

Saying my deepest thoughts is harder than I thought. I feel an instinctive pull at the corners of my lips and my eyelids vibrate, like tremors indicating the beginning of an avalanche. "I'm not necessarily sad that I don't have friends, or that my parents are always busy. It's more… I feel different than them. Than everyone. Why is that? Didn't I grow up just like them? How come I'm the only one who doesn't care about stupid fucking salons? Why does anyone even _care_ about that?" Suddenly, there's anger; hot, searing anger. I've never met this feeling. It's big and looming, with a presence that can cause earthquakes and storms. For some reason, I don't run from it. I want to meet it.

"There's way more going on this godforsaken world, Mother and Father can't possibly think I'm stupid enough to think it's nothing but fucking sunshine and flowers out there. But no one will _fucking tell me_. It's always vague or opinionated explanations that don't give any sort of substance or truth. I feel so suffocated and strange here. I just want to leave."

I'm crying hard now. Fat, hot tears stream down my face and down my chin, some coating my lips with its salty taste. I feel my shoulders shaking and fingers trembling, as if I caught hypothermia. It doesn't come close to the sensation in my heart though; cold, clawed hands rise from the pit of my stomach and seize my heart tightly, sharp nails digging deeply and menacingly. Linette's sudden appearance in front of me startles me awake, and, for some reason, make me cry harder. She doesn't say anything as her thin arms wrap tightly around me, as if in understanding. Why does it feel like she understands? Has she noticed all of this?

Tears and snot wet my face and her shoulder, though she shows no sign of disgust. She only holds me tighter and gently rocks us back and forth, humming an old tune she used to sing when I was younger and concerned more about monsters under my bed or the eerie darkness of my open closet door. Then, she speaks.

"I cannot give you the answers you seek. I cannot make all your sadness and frustration disappear. But, I can tell you this; right now, you're confused, lost, and angry even. You might be for a while. This isn't permanent, though, Giselle. You will find enlightenment, some way or another, and you will find peace, even if it comes in small doses. You're a bright girl, and incredibly perceptive. I mean look at you, you're finding out a lot about yourself right now, even if it's more bad than good. It's all part of the journey; consolidate with patience, wear your resilience inside and out, and most of all: stay true to yourself. You hear me, Giselle Beaumont?"

I sniffle and let out the breath of air that hitched in my throat while listening to her. My tears are gone, save for the dried-up remnants streaking my face. Pulling back, I rub my puffy lids and slump with my hands knotted in my lap. "You're right. I'm sorry for this mess, Lin, I've just… never talked about it. I'll keep your words locked in my heart, promise."

Her smile is warm. "Don't fret, dear, we all have our moments. Do not bottle in these feelings, you understand? You can only do so much on your own. I know you don't have many outlets, but I am one. Come speak to me whenever you wish. I like to think I serve more than just an old housekeeper."

"Of course you are! You're my best friend, Lin," I blush at the admittance. "And thank you, Lin. You really helped me out of a tight spot. I promise I'll remember what you said and look forward."

"Good! Should get it printed and framed while you're at it. I don't offer my divine insight for just anyone," she jokes lightly, a smirk playing at her lips. I giggle and roll my eyes.

"Divine? Hah! Yeah right," I shoot back with a grin. The grip on my heart is melting away. "Oh, looks like we woke up Nola."

Eyes drooping with sleep, Nola peers up with curiosity. "It's nothing, honey. C'mon, let's go to bed!"

Her ears perk up, familiar to the command as I say it every night. "Good night, Lin. Thank you again. You're the absolute best."

"It's no trouble. Now, get some sleep! You've got to be up bright and early for the salon tomorrow," she says as she uses my forearms to heave herself up from the ground.

I nod before patting my leg at Nola, indicating our departure. "C'mon, sleepy girl!"

' _Crying really is a sedative,'_ I muse as I poke at my swollen lids, ready to submit myself to the alluring hypnosis of sleep.

Tomorrow I am to attend yet another salon with Mother, where I'll most likely wear a dress too tight for my waist and forced to mingle with people who only wish to see if their kids are better than me or not. I shake my head to rid myself of any irritation. Sleep comes first, my heart deserves that much, at least.


	2. Chocolate Soufflés and Spinach Quiches

Did I mention that I _hate_ salons?

There's too many people who pretend to care about you, the décor is far too gaudy and extravagant for a simple social event, and the food- don't get me started on the food. Why are the portions so small? I'm nearly tempted to take the whole tray of crab salad canapés when the server strolls by. Unfortunately, that wouldn't go so well with the rules of The Game, so I'm left to take rationed nibbles before I can aloofly grab another when the time calls. Could you imagine Mother's face if I walked around stuffing my face with a whole tray of hors d'oeuvres?

That's why I've spent many salons skillfully formulizing a proper plan of action. I've opted for a silent, guileful method for reaching satisfaction. Before sneaking away to a quieter place, I'll hide a bunch of treats wrapped with napkins in a makeshift pouch on my dress and fold my hands in front; it tends to give off a polite disposition. Then, I scurry off to find a good book and munch on my riches. Mother will sometimes notice the crumbs on the front of my dress and scold me for my messiness, but I'm usually in the clearing.

Today, the salon was to be held at the Dupont's, close friends of my parents. As we exit the car escort, the first thing I notice is dozens of strange hedge sculptures scattered across the front lawn and lined on either side of the grand stone walkway. My face must have subconsciously twisted into a look of confusion because Mother clicked her tongue and said, "It's art, dear."

I had to burn my eyes into the ground to prevent the need to roll them into the back of my head. Mother's assistant, Claire, on the other hand, issues a marveled 'oooh' as stars collect in her eyes. I'm tearing up at this point. Claire is a twenty-one-year-old daughter of a well-known weaponry blacksmith who conspires with the military for designing the best artillery. Since he and Father have worked together on many occasions, she came to Mother for a job knowing full-well that she was her ticket into The Game. Sickening, but she was fascinated by it all. Whenever she tries to talk about it all with me, I slowly tune her out and add occasional nods to appease her needs.

"How is the dress, Giselle?" inquired Mother, a few paces ahead, without as much as a glance.

I peek down at the cerulean and cream piece. The bodice is incredibly tight, leaving little to no room to breathe, with a billowy skirt wrapped in layers of tulle and silk that begin at my hipbone and lengthen to my ankles like cascading ripples. The colors blend together like brushstrokes in a watercolor painting, the ombré effect reflecting a transitioning spring sky. The collar consists of a simple sweetheart neckline with fitted long-sleeves of tulle. Luckily, the cream heeled sandals weren't too hazardous, standing at a simple 2-and-a-half heel with a single strap at the ankle. Truthfully, I would've quite liked it if I didn't feel like I would explode every time I as much took a single breath of air. It paired nicely with the arrival of the spring season. But, of course, I kept my mouth shut about that.

"It's lovely, thank you, Mother," I say politely, taking note of the prideful change in her demeanor. She thrives off compliments.

"Yes, you look absolutely delightful, Giselle! The crystal flower clips in your hair accent the dress beautifully," gushed Claire from beside me with bubbling excitement. I also took note of her glance towards Mother as she said that. Kiss ass.

Nonetheless, I thank her dutifully, watching with amusement as shooting stars soar across her oceanic eyes. Before we know it, we arrive inside, and we're immediately swarmed with attention. Mother instinctively grabs my arm and ushers me beside her. With a spark of fear in my throat, I witness the ceremonial transition of masks. Long gone was the characteristic high-arched brows and thin-lipped frown. The ice that seemed to hold her steely visage in place melts away as if exposed to a heat comparable to the sun. Discomfort rattles within as a bloodthirsty glint reflects in her voracious eyes, contrastingly heavily to the charming smile that practically lights up the room.

With the utmost patience, I maintain a respectful and kind disposition, answering to any who call. Mother is quite popular at these sorts of events; thus, I regularly find myself subjected to lively socializing complete with prolonged standing that blisters my feet and a perpetual smile that aches my jaw. Today is no different; in fact, it's even worse since my birthday passed not but a few days ago. I beam with gratitude and bow my head at the high tides of birthday wishes washing over me, and not before long, the intensity of the waves water-log my ears and shoot up my nose. I choke.

"Well, a girl at her age should be thinking about marriage right about now! Any bachelors in mind, Camille-darling?"

I nearly spew the champagne I'm sipping on, my face no doubt blooming red like a rich rose bush. The women around me giggle at my reaction, as it is quite obvious, and gather closer with idle whispers of delight at fresh gossip. Mother lets out an enchanting laugh, like tinkling bells in a mild breeze, and takes my hand in hers. Oh, _god_.

"We haven't discussed much on the subject just yet,"

Correction: we haven't discussed it at all.

"But, it's definitely in the air! It's better to start early, don't you agree, ladies?"

A surge of electric currents shoot up my spine as I feel the color drain from my face. I've just turned 18, how can I be ready for marriage just yet? I barely maintain a number of friendships as it is, how can I spend the rest of my life with someone my Mother would, no doubt, pair me up with? And knowing her, it would be someone with high social status and wealth to 'preserve' our pureblood hierarchy.

I am not wet behind the ears when it comes to romance, although I've never met it face-to-face. My meetings take the form of vicarious visions through characters written in fictional novels, certainly not with myself and any of the boys I've met. I've simply never met anyone who piqued my interest as they were either too arrogant or too unrefined on matters important to me. That isn't to say I'm uninterested in the subject, however; I've experienced my fair share of vibrant romance-filled fantasies. Lately, these reveries take place in the mountains far away with breathtaking views devoid of any distractions or complications. It's just him and I, a litter of puppies, and a cozy home. The thought brings warmth to my tummy.

"Speaking of which, Camille, has Giselle met Darrien yet? I believe they played as children, but it's been so long!" came the shrilling voice of Fleur Dupont, the hostess of the salon and Mother's best friend.

' _Who is Darrien?_ ' I ponder wordlessly, her pitched voice seizing me from my trance.

I feel mother nudge me in the ribs. "Ah, no, it's been far too long. Where is he? I'm sure Giselle would love to acquaint with him after all these years," she enthuses with a glint in her eye that stuffs my throat with dread.

Flinching at Madame Dupont's call to her son, I impulsively turn to flee, my primal fight or flight instinct kicking in; flight sounds fantastic at the moment. However, Mother's sharp nails dig into my upper arm as her voice lowers a few octaves, just for our ears.

"You will not embarrass our name; not now, not ever."

I immediately zip into shape.

"Darrien-dearie, I want to introduce you to someone. This," Madame Dupont pulls me over with familiar talons, "is Giselle, Vincent and Camille's heir to the Beaumont name. Isn't she just _lovely?_ "

Hearing the term 'Darrien-dearie' already gave me the image of an overly-coddled son who throws tantrums when things don't go his way. Reluctantly, I look up from the hole I was burning into the marbled tile and tautly face this so-called Darrien. Upon meeting his gaze, all I can think of is one thing:

Lover-boy.

"It's an honor to meet your acquaintance, Mademoiselle. You're as divine as they say," he greets with an overdose of sugary-sweet flirtation. I haven't met one of these yet.

Feeling Mother's stare drilling into the back of my skull, I offer the most cordial smile I'm capable of and bow with the grace Mother taught me to use. "It's my pleasure, Monsieur Darrien. Your kind words bring me the most joy."

The pleased grin did not escape my eyes. Oh, boy.

"Giselle, why don't you two go off and further familiarize yourselves?" says Mother, her hand finding the small of my back. Darrien looks incredibly delighted by this suggestion. I, however, feel as though I'm going to regurgitate the spinach and mushroom quiche I had for breakfast this morning.

"I think that sounds like a wonderful plan," Darrien commends, offering his arm to me, "Mademoiselle?"

I feel a push and stumble forward, only to be caught by the hands of Darrien himself. Sputtering out a humiliated apology, I awkwardly take his arm and let him escort us out of the growing crowd of overly-galvanized women gushing behind us. The red tint finds its way back to my cheeks as I hear their giggles and whispers trail behind. Glancing beside me, I don't overlook the swelling in Darrien's chest as he takes us away from the party and to a quiet balcony overlooking the city. Although I'm not too keen about the situation, the change of setting is refreshing. I welcome the gentle breeze dancing around us, closing my eyes momentarily as it caresses my tendrils and cools my heated cheeks.

' _The clouds are much happier today_ ,' I think wistfully, searching the sky for a shred of darkness. I found none.

"Sorry about all that… It gets pretty intense, doesn't it?"

My ears perk up at the sudden change in tone. To my surprise, the boastful, flirtatious Darrien is long gone, replaced by someone far more boyish and timid. Well, look at that. "It does," I giggle knowingly, "Never a dull moment though, I suppose."

He laughs with the same familiarity. "You got that right. Let me try this again… Darrien, just Darrien. It's nice to meet you," he trails off with a sheepish grin, "Though I think we were playmates a long time ago."

"It's nice to meet you, Darrien. I'm Giselle," I flash a teasing smile, " _just_ Giselle. I'm afraid I don't remember much about that, but I'm sure we had lots of fun."

This is unexpected. Relieving, without a doubt, but unexpected. I half-thought I'd have to sit deafly through an afternoon of incessant narcissism and vanity. This exceeds my expectations in the best of ways.

For the next hour, we decide it is best to stray far, far away from anything relating to salons and their uppity standards. We instead opt for far more relaxed topics, like what our favorite foods are and what kind of hobbies we like to do. Pleasantly so, I discover that he's a bit of a homebody who prefers to work on his collection of rare gemstones and read books rather than live the lavish life of his parents. I found sentiment in this and began melting more and more into our conversation, the surroundings around us fading into a muted blur. I haven't met anyone who resembled myself to such a degree, and truth be told, it is invigorating.

It doesn't hurt that he's easy on the eyes. Standing at around 5'11'', his lanky figure towered over my 5'0'' stature, though I can tell he's under construction by the form-fitting button-up hugging his developing muscles. Rich, auburn curls lay atop his head, slicked back for a clean-cut look. The chocolate browns of his eyes remind me of one of my favorite desserts, chocolate soufflé, and hold a sparkle of boyhood that I find endearing.

"What's wrong?" he asks suddenly. I jolt from my stupor. "Is there something on my face?"

' _Dammit, Giselle, you stared for too long. Get a hold of yourself_ ,' I chide silently.

"N-no, I'm sorry! I got a bit lost for a second," I reply sheepishly, averting my eyes to the creepy hedge sculptures in hopes of soothing my crackling nerves.

A pregnant pause fills the air. "You too, huh?"

' _Huh?'_

A smooth hand takes hold of my chin and tilts it up and over. Wide-eyed and breathless, I lock gazes with Darrien, whose chocolate soufflé eyes become burnt with… passion? As if placed in front of a microphone, my heartbeat thumps deafeningly loud in my ears, intermingled with the sound of rushing blood spreading throughout the entirety of my body. I watch, horrified, as he places a cloth over the burnt chocolate, eyes shutting as his face grows nearer and nearer.

' _What is happening?'_

My body feels as if I've been doused in electrical water, buzzing and shaking although completely immobile. The breath in my lungs stops short and hitches painfully in my throat, congealing into a thick honey-like texture. Why is he doing this? We were just talking about his gemstone collection, what did I do to instigate this?

' _Move!'_ I scream in my head, and before his moistened, puckered lips mash against mine, I push him away, stumbling backwards. His eyes shoot open like a light switch. An awkward silence fills the space between us.

' _Say something, idiot; anything!'_

"Um… I have to pee!"

Then I bolt.

Panic and embarrassment surging through my veins, I spontaneously decide to climb up another flight of stairs down the hall to find a haven. Perhaps there's a library somewhere around here. With silent verve, I open each door that passes to briefly check the insides for my goal. My breathing feels ragged and hoarse and I curse myself for not bringing my drink with me. Swallowing futilely at the accumulated lump in my throat, I push through the winding hallway, feeling entirely too small within its grand ceiling and wide corridor; until I found it.

The library.

Without as much as a second guess, I swung the door open and scurried in, collapsing breathlessly as I closed it behind me. What on earth just happened? My knees tremble under the weight of my body as my bones turn into heavy iron. I slide down the door, knees pinned under, and wallow soundlessly in the heat of humiliation. Why couldn't I just decline politely like a normal human? Instead, I screamed about urination in his face and ran like a madwoman. There's no way in hell I could face him again, let alone Mother if she finds out how I acted.

Fortunately, the library is void of bodies or sound, providing a therapeutic support as I regain my composure. I close my eyes and issue a deep sigh, letting the haggard breath fill the library's span. The sound of gentle whirring blankets my conscious in a sleepy haze, tempting me with the prospect of a nap. Then I hear footsteps approach.

' _Wait, footsteps? They're not from outside of the library,_ ' I contemplate with alarm. The footsteps stop a few feet away from me. There's no use in pretending to be asleep, so with heavy reluctance, my eyes flutter open only to meet dress-pant clothed legs. My eyes travel up, taking in their long legs, tucked in dress shirt, and lean, though incredibly toned physique. Ice blue locks with honey gold.

"Shit! I mean, ah, I'm sorry. You scared me," I stammer dumbly, "I didn't realize someone was in here."

I scramble to my feet, dusting off the back of my dress with trembling hands. The man doesn't respond. Instead, I feel his boring gaze locked fiercely on me. Uncomfortable under his intense stare, I shift my eyes up, but find myself flinching hard in subconscious fear.

His face is terrifyingly blank; no emotion, no expression- nothing. Cautiously, my eyes travel across his face, drinking in the clean slate staring back at me. His eyes are hooded and sharp, though slack with emptiness. Wild tufts of ash blond adorn his head with bangs that fell strangely centered and parted on either side with extra locks. The nape of his neck is close-cut, though gradually grows longer towards the top of his head. Although quite handsome, I couldn't help but feel as though someone dropped a huge block of ice in the pit of my stomach.

"Um… do you speak?" I ask carefully, my hand clumsily feeling for the door knob behind me.

"Yes."

My breathing grows haggard again.

"What's your name?"

He doesn't hesitate. "I am A-1391. How may I be of assistance?"

' _What the hell is he-'_

"That's… an interesting name. Do you have a nickname, or something?" I ask with nervous chuckles tickling stomach.

"That is the name I was given upon my creation. Master Darrien prefers 'A-Dog'." His voice is as monotone as his face, offering no evidence of any real brain activity.

"You work for Darrien?" It's like he's completely computerized. "What do yo-"

 _Click._

"You're a Protector," I blurt without realizing. My heart is beating so fast, I feel as though I could go into cardiac arrest at any point.

"Yes, I am the Protector of Master Darrien. How may I be of assistance?"

Bile sloshes in my stomach, threatening to spew all over the ground. _This_ is a Protector. _This_ is the war machine my family has been working on for the past century.

' _This is my 18_ _th_ _birthday present.'_

The words echo in my head like a drum, its intense thumps close to splitting my temples open. A wave of dizziness rattles my vision and creates the illusion of multiple images before me. The bile in my stomach grows even more restless, as if spun by a baking mixer, and I genuinely believe I'm going to throw up.

"I-I have to go," I slur out as I clamp my hand over my mouth and ineptly fumble for the door handle. He says nothing behind me, simply standing there, staring, awaiting command.

Slinging open the door, I stagger out and rush to find a toilet, wastebasket, anything. Mother would wring my neck if she found out I spilled my insides on the hostess's rich burgundy rug. Thankfully, I remember finding a bathroom a ways back, and sprint to empty my stomach of the anxiety-induced vomit lurching up my throat.

' _That's is my 18_ _th_ _birthday present,'_ I repeat mindlessly, ' _That's my 18_ _th_ _birthday present.'_

As I slump against the previously pristine toilet, now stained with chunks of this morning's breakfast, a flourishing feeling of absolute dread numbs my veins, throwing my conscious into a buzzing paralysis.

' _He looked real, he looked so real. I swear to god he was human.'_


	3. Steeling Hearts for Steel Eyes

Life works in strange ways, doesn't it?

One moment you're having a delightful day: studies are cancelled for the day, you get to sleep in a few extra hours, you wake up next to the most beautiful pup in the world, Yvette and Ira prepare your favorite breakfast, you find a new treasure tucked away in the corner of the library. The fuzziness that blossoms in your chest from life's simple joys is of great value, and something we unfortunately tend to overlook with the hastiness of time. If we were to get off the train at the next stop and choose to walk for a few miles with open eyes and open hearts, we would see the beauty of life's simplicity and candor; such fuels for the seemingly monotonous routine we can find ourselves slogging through every now and then.

But then life hits you with that same damn train.

Suddenly, you're seized violently from the mesmerizing book you found, wide-eyed and stunned as a frazzled Linette drags you out of the library and throws you in your dressing room, a freshly-pressed outfit staring smugly at you from the clothing rack. Pleadingly, you look to Linette for answers, but she's far too occupied with her own concerns as she mutters out a thousand and one tasks from her mental to-do list. Truthfully, she looks rather frightening with her wide, bloodshot eyes, tufts of unkempt hair sticking in all sorts of directions, and incessant muttering as if she had a couple of 'friends'. Poor Lin, she must've gotten up before dawn with all she's got to do.

If it wasn't already clear as day- this is the hell I'm currently experiencing. Strangely enough, the TEA representatives' meeting vanished from the files in my mind this morning, possibly due to subconscious repression after the Dupont's salon on Friday. At the sheer thought of my disturbing meeting with Darrien's Protector, a chill slithers up my spine like a ravenous snake, paralyzing fangs sinking into my brain with cold venom. My face feels tingly, like a thousand needles are dancing across my skin, as my conscious momentarily detaches from reality. Lost in my thoughts, I stare blankly at the table before me, numb to the merciless yanks of my curls by Linette's brushing. She taps the crown of my head with the back of the brush- hard.

"Ow, Lin!" I whine pathetically, swatting at her hand in futile vengeance.

She narrows her tired eyes. "I know you have a bitter attitude about this, but Madame Beaumont will skin you alive if you show as much as a morsel of it in front of the representatives."

"I know, I'm sorry," I mumble with a cross of my arms, slouching further down the chair. Linette clicks her tongue at the childish display and continues to brush through my stubborn locks.

In less than two hours, I will receive my very own Protector.

As simple as pushing the thought to the dusty storage room of my mind sounds, the lingering, ominous presence of Reason manages to block the way. Or perhaps I'm over thinking it. Ownership of a war machine is already strange to me, but the eerie realness to Darrien's Protector plagues my mind. The supple skin of his neck, the peach fuzz of his face, the faint lines of wear around his eyes- how can a machine made of wires and steel have all of that? Has technology really come that far? Why someone would want such realistic creations when we're already surrounded every day by thousands of the very realness in imitation escapes me.

A small sigh releases from my lungs. _'I'm going to drive myself crazy with this worrying. Might as well give it a shot,'_ I think with minute enthusiasm, wincing slightly as yet another pull nearly takes my scalp off.

" _Hey_ , watch it, Lin!"

It hasn't rained since the night before the salon.

Odd; you'd think out of all days, today would be the day to storm madly with how knotted my nerves are. Nonetheless, as I sit patiently in the sitting room with my eyes glued to the window, a serene spring afternoon stares back at me. Mother is seated rigidly in the gilded, plush loveseat from the opposite side of the window while Lin stands docile in the wide entryway of the room. A stifling silence takes up the space as we await the arrival of Father and the representatives, whom he left to greet in the front for introduction purposes. The sound of Mother's impatient tapping against the armrest disturb the silence like a wrecking ball smashing against concrete. I attempt to mask my flinches.

Fortunately, Claire couldn't join us as Mother sent her on a myriad of errands to accomplish downtown; she's sweet, but her enthusiasm would highly grate my nerves for this occasion. Just imagining her squeals of jubilance makes me want to bash my head against the window so I can have a nice, long nap.

You know, that doesn't sound too bad.

"Giselle."

Never mind.

"Yes, Mother?" I respond almost immediately with an inclination of my head.

"You remember what we discussed, yes? Be on your best behavior. I will not waste time cleaning up after any of your insolence, you hear me?" she lectures warningly, absolute sincerity embedded deeply into her words.

I gulp down a wad of fear. "Yes ma'am."

The sound of the front door clicking open and good-natured laughter spills into the sitting room like waves of icy water; they're here. Obediently, I rise from the comfort of the therapeutic scenery through the window and station beside Mother with my hands wringing apprehensively behind. Footsteps grow louder and louder as my eyes lock onto the white marbled flooring, finding a sudden interest in the tiny grey lightning marks veined into the stone. Three shadows extend into my peripherals and Mother whispers lowly, "Smile for the representatives, Giselle."

Timidly, my head rises and meets Father's gaze. He looks proud, ecstatic even, azure pools glistening like the reflection of moonlight across the ocean's surface. Finding it difficult to meet his eyes, I opt for a painting hanging in the foyer behind them.

"This must be the lucky birthday girl. You're far lovelier than your father described, Miss Giselle." The voice shakes me from the captivating watercolor painting, remnants of its brush strokes blotting my vision uncomfortably from staring too long.

"Yes, this is her, Urien. Isn't she so?" Mother turns toward me and hardens her gaze. "What do you say, Giselle?"

With ruddy cheeks, I thank this so-called 'Urien', voice soft and strained. Though I truly try to make it not seem so.

Mother claps her hands together before encouraging everyone to sit. The two representatives politely seat themselves at the edge of the loveseat while Father stands between them and Mother, whom sat back down at her favorite plush chair. Faltering for a moment, I seat myself across the center table from Mother. Fortunately for me, the tasteful vase on the table acting as a centerpiece with its blooming bouquet of dark red roses obscures my view of Mother's face. I don't think I could handle much more of her threatening expressions throughout the meeting.

For the next 20 minutes or so, Urien and his partner issue an introductory presentation on who they are and what the TEA is. We learn of their positions, which are much like salespeople or product demonstrators, before delving into the TEA itself. With Father having worked closely with the TEA for many years, I've learned a great deal beforehand, thus begin to find my attention drifting in-and-out at the already familiar information.

The TEA, otherwise known as the Titan Eradication Agency, is a military branch that was developed about fifty years ago. At first, it merely served as a research organization for greater advancements in Titan destruction technology; however, in recent years, it took over the branch formerly in charge of expeditions beyond the walls and Titan battle- the Scouting Legion. Apparently, the government grew more and more disappointed with the casualties-to-success ratio over the years and consequently shut the branch down with the recent Titan battle failure led by former Commander, Keith Shadis. Many lives were lost, far too many for the ending results, and it threw the government in disarray and outrage. In only a year, the King called for their removal and enacted the TEA as their replacement.

During these fifty years, the TEA was far from idle as my grandfather, Olivier Beaumont took on the research for the development of the Protector prototype passed down by my great grandfather. For years, they worked tirelessly with a team of bioengineers to complete the first successful prototype, and about twenty years ago, they found gold. The first prototype was a complete success and in no time, they began to manufacture mass productions of the Protectors for battle use. The government seemed to have a loving relationship with the TEA, so when the Protectors reached potential and the Scouting Legion took yet another blow for humanity, the government didn't think twice when resolving for renovation of the military branches.

Truthfully, I'm not quite sure what became of the Scouting Legion, or why they were viewed with such disdain, but rumors say that their former members are practically nonexistent today. Not even a decade later and it feels as though their memory is long forgotten by the public. Once in a blue moon, I'll hear whispers of its name like ghosted words on tightened lips, as if a forbidden topic. Dumbfounded by such secrecy, I asked Father about them one day and all I got out of him was, "They were an old order who disappointed humanity. That's all you need to know, sweetheart."

Surely that must mean there's more to it than that, right? Yet another vague subject to add to my knowledge, and bitterly so. I suppose that's why my heart turns sour at any mentioning of the TEA; it's far too shady for me to find any comfort in it. I'd never tell Mother or Father that, though. They'd probably ship me off to a mental doctor if they found out about the little conspiracies theories that float in my mind from time to time.

"Well, Miss Giselle, are you ready to meet your Protector?"

' _Not quite.'_

"Y-yes, I am," I murmur with a sweet smile, cursing myself inwardly for stuttering like an idiot.

"Let us retrieve it and we'll perform a detailed demonstration on its workings, how does that sound?" came Urien's partner, Sven.

I nod in agreement and follow their retreating figures as they disappear into the foyer and out the front door. Father lets out a satisfied sigh, a grin gracing his aging face, and leans down to whisper God-knows-what into Mother's ear. A smile splits across her own face as a light laugh slips freely through her lips, disturbing the silence I welcomed from the TEA reps' exit.

' _It's happening. It's really happening,_ ' chants my conscious as my heart begins to pound in my ears. The all-too familiar prickly feeling of apprehension lays over my face like a wedding veil, warming and tingling the skin uncomfortably.

 _Ba bump._

I hear the van door close.

 _Ba bump._

Heavily burdened wheels cross assorted terrains.

 _Ba bump. Ba bump._

Grass, stone- a pause, there's an obstacle.

 _Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump._

"Up on three; 1… 2… 3!"

 _Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump._

Screeches against marble echo throughout the vast foyer.

 _Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bump. Ba bu-_

"Giselle."

My heart stops.

"I present you, Miss Giselle, our finest model yet," Urien inputs a code on a keypad and unlocks the metal encasement. "SX-2206."

The room spins as if I'm on a carousel. Diagonal from me, a few feet in front of the window, stands a man- ah, machine, I mean- in the giant chest. I stare with disbelief swelling in my chest as Urien and Sven lift the machine out and stand him- shit, I mean it- upright between them, demeanors doused with overwhelming pride and approval. Father shares the same aura, though a glare of self-satisfaction reflects in his eyes at the sight. This must be the model Father and his team were working incessantly on in the last year.

"Would you like to come closer? He won't bite," chuckles Sven, though his voice sounds so far away.

I look toward Mother with wide eyes and a clenched jaw, unable to maintain composure. Her face says it all: _'Get your shit together and do as they say.'_

Unsteadily, I take a step forward, my mind buzzing with numb fear. Willing the other foot forward, I come closer and closer to the model, each step generating a pound of lead in the pit of my stomach. My ears are ringing, like they've just been blasted with deafeningly loud music by giant woofers from an inch away. I barely hear the laughter erupting from the representatives at the sight of my nervousness over the concentrated ringing deep within my eardrums, its sound comingling with the blood rushing into my face and ears.

I stop a foot away, a haggard breath exiting my lungs as I drink in the machine before me. Strangely enough, it's only an inch or two taller than me; you'd think they would prefer all Protectors to have tall statures. I suppose the height is intended for special purposes. Curious, tentative eyes grace over ink black hair, parted to my visual left, that hung just above the eyes. By the ear, I see a shaved line of hair and notice it stretches across the back of the head, indicating a close-shaven undercut. Pale skin, almost ghostly so, reflects in the light with a clean and soft, although certainly matured, surface. The eyes are closed, so I take in the straight, pointed nose and slightly thin and plump lips adorning the face. My eyes travel across the strong jawline and pointed chin before grazing across the softly defined cheekbones and dropping to the neck. While passing through the Adam's apple and collarbones, I stop short at the sight a few inches down.

"What is that?" I ask breathlessly. I didn't realize I was holding it all this time.

"Oh, these?" Sven points to the two square appendages protruding parallel to each other on the chest, the tight black material of its top stretched over their shapes. I nod stiffly. "These, Miss Giselle, are the control pads. This model _is_ voice-activated; however, it still has control pads just in case of technical errors or if simply preferred."

"The left one here is responsible for issuing simple physical commands such as power, halt, walk, run, silence, or retrieve," he points to its counterpart, "And this one right here manages attack commands. You can issue it to defend or attack using a variety of abilities such as hand-to-hand combat, shielding, or weaponry that has been constructed within the body. This model can generate these weapons based on your command.

"Now again, it is voice-activated, but if needed, you may alternatively use the control pads here. Would you like to turn it on?"

My intestines coil tightly. "Um… y-yeah, sure," I breathe out. "How, ah… which one?"

Sven gestures to the bright red button on the left command strip, eyes glimmering with excitement. Raising a trembling hand, I lay my finger against the button, shut my eyes, and press down. A familiar buzzing sound tickles my ears, the same sound I heard at the Duponts' when I met Darrien's Protector. It's exactly what it is; a machine whirring to life, although it doesn't feel like it should be doing that, not in the least.

"We've programmed this guy beforehand for you, so it's ready for use. He's already aware of who you are from the tests we ran on you a few months ago; we input your biological data so he can sensor you not only visually, but he also has a radar that can locate you within a 20-mile radius," Urien pipes up, speaking quite animatedly. "He does this by scanning your DNA; he's able to determine the nuclear or mitochondrial DNA located in your blood, hair, tissue, or bone by simply using the scanners we developed in his eyes."

"What do you mean? Are they like microscopes or something?" I inquire with growing curiosity, marveling at the intricacy of the technology behind the machine. We've advanced so far with our technology over the years; it will never cease to amaze me.

Urien chuckles. "Quite literally, yes. Amongst other things. DNA requires greater power when viewing its details, power you cannot find with simple objective lenses in microscopes. However, we've programmed the necessary equipment so he's able to scan the DNA material in your body and identify your person."

' _This is fucking crazy,'_ I muse silently, _'It'll know exactly where I am within a 20-mile radius too? That's… creepy.'_

Shaking my head lightly at the thought, I return my gaze back to the face and nearly choke.

The eyes are open and are staring right at me.

"Ah, looks like he's awake!" Sven announces jubilantly, "Go ahead and introduce yourself, Miss Giselle."

My voice is lost in my throat as my eyes begin to stitch to his. They're absolutely breathtaking and unlike any color I've ever seen in an iris. Steel grey eyes stare back at me like a sword's blade glinting under the sun's rays; sharp and dangerous, though honest and committed. They're fairly deep-set with the slightest upturn, though the smoldering, blue steel semblance is intimidating, to say in the least.

"A-ahm… Hi," I whisper hoarsely. Why can't I speak properly? I look like a fucking idiot. "I'm Giselle Beaumont."

A spark of recognition flits across steel pools as the Protector suddenly bows deeply, lifting up enough to meet my eyes again. "Giselle Beaumont, it is an honor to meet you. I am SX-2206, your personal Protector. I serve to defend you entirely with my body and abilities. I hope to please you in my service."

The voice is so… mechanical- but human. I can't describe it. It's deep with masculinity, yet smooth like a marbled surface. If not for the strange mechanical deliverance, I would have found it to be quite soothing and attractive. I realize that he's still bowed over, staring into my eyes, and nearly jump in surprise. "Thank you, you can… stand straight now."

Without hesitation, the Protector straightens its body, eyes not leaving mine for a second. This was going to be uncomfortable.

'It… he… I don't even know how to think of it- him- ah, fuck. Both make me feel uncomfortable for their own reasons but I'll just refer to it as a 'he',' I think decidedly, refraining myself from outwardly rolling my eyes in annoyance.

For the next hour, the representatives stay to demonstrate a few variances in the command actions, as well as discuss further necessary information and answer any questions we may have for them. I kept quiet the whole duration, allowing Mother and Father to do the talking for me, while I instead occupied myself by examining my Protector. He in turn obediently stared back, though not in analysis; just awaiting command. It's not long before the representatives say their goodbyes and wish me another happy belated birthday. With Father in tow, they make their leave and linger in the front to continue more personal discussions.

"Your heart beat," a deep voice starts. It's him.

"Yes?" I reply with a clear of my throat. My heart beat?

He raises his hand and presses his fingers to the junction of my throat and jaw, where my pulses resonate. "It's quick. Are you ill?"

I sputter on my words, cursing at the blush forming on my cheeks, and gently lower his hand from my neck, shaking my head in reply. He doesn't respond and instead continues to look on with a heightened sense of alertness.

' _That's not going to help my heartbeat,'_ I mumble mentally, _'I feel weird when people stare.'_

Mother rises from her seat across the table and crosses to the other side of him, eyes filled with a wonder. She takes his chin and turns his head towards her, a strange shade of curiosity coloring her face.

"What should we name it, Giselle?"

I flinch. "Um, I don't know. Do you have another name?" I direct the question to the Protector, whom shrugs easily from Mother's talons, his briefly monotonous expression lightening with the smallest sense of relief. I almost snorted at that. He seemed to find solace in my presence, but I suppose that's because he was programmed to exist and serve for me. The thought makes me feel ill.

"I am SX-2206; however, I will go by whatever name you choose for me."

I refrain from groaning aloud. What should I name him? Looking over him, I mull over a few names, though they either feel too cheesy or plain don't fit him. Steel follows gold like a loyal knight and his noble queen, but falters as the queen bursts with enlightenment.

I giggle into my hand, eyes shimmering with resolve.

"Renny," I declare, "I'll name him Renny."

Mother clicks her tongue with a roll of her eyes. I don't care- it suits him perfectly.

' _Renny: small, but mighty.'_


End file.
